


little poor me

by ramosal



Category: MTMTE - Fandom, The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Prowl: Blink And You'll Miss Him, Short One Shot, War, probably not canon compliant, robot gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramosal/pseuds/ramosal
Summary: Getaway's first battle. Short oneshot. CW for death mention, robot gore (not too graphic but... I did the graphic violence warning just in case.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	little poor me

**Author's Note:**

> Just some thoughts I wrote a while ago for The Definition of the problematic fave. Title is from the Layto song of the same name.

_Decepticons._

_Purple badge, bad._

_Scores of dead._

_Murderers._

_Peace through Tyranny!_

_Freedom, the right of all sentient beings._

_Scores of dead._

_Purple badge._

_Decepticons._

_Bad._

The air was thick and gunking in his intakes, the smoke rising in columns under the hot, crimson sky. Loud screams. A creek of energon trickling under his feet. Getaway knew what he was supposed to do, but his joints were locked in their bearings. Purple badges bled into the red, friend no different from foe. Knuckles deep in circuitry, tearing out wires by the fistfuls. Leaking optics, fizzing systems. Life was sputtering into death all around him, and still, he stood. Seized by the taste of laser plasma igniting the air, and the chaos of the battle. His first battle. His first few minutes of being alive. Receding into something intangible, as he ran, and ran, and ran.

___

Everybody else was flecked pink. Their own, or somebody else’s, what did it matter? Getaway knelt down, the corpse already greying. Split and splintered, optics dead, jaw unhinged. A shallow pool of energon had gathered in its pitted chest cavity. He dipped in his fingertips, thinking he would feel wrong as he painted himself bloody. There was no telling if this was one of his own or one of theirs. Whatever badge had been painted or mounted onto its chassis, the battle had rubbed all of that away. He scooped the energon out, splashing himself with it, obscured by a mound of heaped parts and the lumpy geography of the planet. And yet still reached by the sounds of the victors searching through the rubble for whoever might be left.

If he had fought, Getaway supposed he would have been damaged. He eyed the rent metal and split scrap around him, trying to make out what a puncture wound might look like, or a gash, or a leakage. Near to the ‘bot he had just desecrated, there was a spear, the charge long run-out. Hesitating, Getaway thought about the drive he had to self-injure. Punishment, maybe, for what he had just done? Something to make him feel better? Or not just better. He would settle for feeling _anything_. This was _horrifying_. He said that to himself as he drove the tip of the spear in the joining between his knee and thigh.

 _This is awful_.

An ache as deep as his frame spread through his leg, a whimper muffled behind his faceplate as he attempted to get to a stand.

 _This is terrible_.

He limped from behind the little hill, staggering into view of an Autobot surveying the battle scene. Taller than him, top-heavy, and no face plate. White and black colour scheme. On instinct, he drew his weapon, and Getaway threw up his hands.

‘I’m an Autobot.’ Every mechanism was tight inside of him. ‘I’m like you,’ he said, but not quite believing it.

Relaxing, the other Autobot cycled his vents.

‘Another survivor,’ he yelled to the small congregation behind him.

The battle worn, the injured, and a clean-up team. Getaway observed them, comparing their damage to his. Hoping his efforts would be enough to convince.

‘What’s your name?’ the Autobot asked.

‘Getaway of the -’

The other Autobot shook his head to cut him off and adjusted his footing.

‘Getaway,’ he repeated. A statement turned question. 'Fitting.'

He nodded in lieu of an answer. Supposed so. Hoped his trembling wasn't too obvious, especially when there was no reason for it. He wasn't frightened.

Not anymore.

This was a victory.

He had already won.


End file.
